You Fixed Me
by Excellently-Elementary
Summary: Reid has been clean for five years, two weeks, three days, and four hours. And tonight, it's time to acknowledge that fact. Told from Reid's POV. Warning: Reference to Drug Use and very mild language! One-Shot. Rated T to be Safe.


**A/N: Heyy. I feel kinda' like a jerk for not posting anything for days. Luckily, I have testing this week, which means I have half-days, which means I will have more time to upload/update things. Fist pump! It's like, really early right now, but in the early afternoon I shall return from school. I wrote this last night actually, but I didn't get to edit or spell check or anything, so I just waited until this morning to upload. **

**Okay, I was watching Elephant's Memory the other day, and I was like, "Woah. Where's his one-year medallion?"**

**But then he should get his five-year medallion because he was abducted by Tobias Hankle in 2007. So, yeah.**

**THUS THIS STORY WAS INSPIRED.**

**But I couldn't think of a good title. So, sorry about that. xD **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. **

**Warning: Reference to Drug Use and one mild curse-word.**

**I don't write in First POV often, and I'm sorry if anyone seems OOC. And I haven't been to a meeting before, so I just used my imagination and guessed what they would be like. **

**Anyways, enjoy~**

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**_Light Will Guide You Home/And Ignite Your Bones/And I Will Try to Fix You_**

**_~Coldplay: Fix You_**

Spencer Reid's POV

Addiction is a simple term, really. But I don't think no one fully understands the word addiction until you have to actually face one yourself. By yourself. Alone.

The logical definition of the term 'addiction' is the condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.

But the physiological one?

Before. . . Hankel, I could easily look at a case. Zip right through it, because I simply did not know the victim. I didn't know what it felt like to _be_ the victim.

Yes, I have suffered extremely in High School. I mean, being the only twelve-year old child with other children- no, young adults- six years your senior, you are bound to get bullied. Well, bullied is a mild term, but I have moved passed my adolescent years.

I gulped nervously as the next speaker approached the podium. Time was running out.

Every one has their own definition of the word addiction, I suppose. But if I talked to each and everyone who has suffered from one, they would come to the same conclusion:

It feels as if a piece of you is ripped away, as if you are a puzzle and a piece is just. . . gone. Missing._ Absent._

And it feels so wrong. You're not yourself anymore. You do not like the things you used to like. You hurt the people closest to you, and when I did that, when I hurt the people I loved like a family, I knew it was enough.

I could mope in my lonely apartment, tear up my books, tear up my life every time I would inject that wickedly blissful substance into my arm with tears streaking down my face, but I could not- _would_ not- tear up my family.

They loved me too much to waste my life away in a bottle of Dilaudid.

And, eventually, they helped me see that I loved my life too much to throw it all away.

The speaker finished, earning himself a hearty amount of applause, and another man stepped up.

I gulped, sinking into my chair, wistfully gazing at the back doors. I should've asked my team to come.

"A very brave, young friend of mine came here today," John, my sponsor and supporter, announced, "to earn a very prestigious award and to say some words to you folks still trying to reach your goals. Please welcome, Dr. Spencer Reid."

He clapped, staring at me expectantly from the front of the long room that seemed to be getting longer by the second.

My knees wobbled as I stood to my feet, trying to push down the wave of nausea that kept making itself known.

My worn converse padded across the tiled floor, cutting into the dead silence that fell among the group when John announced me.

Apparently, thirty-years old is still young for a doctor in the FBI.

I awkwardly stepped in front of the podium and John gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. He asked me about this, if I really wanted to do this.

"_I don't want to do this," I held up a hand when he immediately opened his mouth. Closing my eyes, I announced, "but I have to, John." _

"_You don't have anything to prove, Spencer, you know that, right?" He rubbed a hand through his greying hair, obviously worried about me. _

_I smiled slightly, "I know, John. I don't have anything to prove anymore. But I just-" I choked on a sob._

_Closing my eyes once more, I dropped my voice in almost a whisper,_

"_It's just. . . I have to."_

The lights on the ceiling seemed too bright, everything so wrong. I wondered if I could just sneak out the back doors, or better yet, dig a hole and bury myself in it.

Sadly, both of those options were highly improbable. And I'm not about to dig my own grave again.

Taking a deep breath, I looked out into the crowd.

Midle-aged police officers stared back at me, with pitying looks in their eyes. They probably noticed my trembling.

The room was simple, almost an exact replica of the one we used to meet in for our weekly Beltway Clean Cops meetings. The walls were mostly bare, except for the occasional motivational posters decorating them. A poster with a kitten hanging on a tree branch with its small paws and proclaiming 'Just Hang in There' above its head. Other posters were slightly more age appropriate, such as the ones with simple designs and some of my personal favorite quotes hanging above them.

_Ever failed_, one poster with splashed of colors popped into my vision, _No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better._

I almost smiled at that fond memory.

Gideon. . .

Surprisingly, I didn't miss him as much as I thought I would. I mean, yes, he was indeed my father-figure, my mentor, my hero. But I moved closer to the team after his departure. While my walls were down, they came in and repaired them. Prevented me from getting the support I really wanted from the one thing that could spare me from this emotional pain.

Mentally slapping myself across the face, I tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear and leaned in closer to the microphone.

"Uh, hello. My name is, erm, Dr. Spencer Reid? And I am in the FBI?" I inwardly groaned; in case they didn't know I really disliked speaking in front of a large crowd, they could all figure it out by the horrible stutter that returned when my nerves were at their peak.

The crowd was still silent, and I noticed a cop, maybe ten years older than myself, smirk arrogantly. He leaned over and whispered something to his female partner next to him, who angrily slapped him on the shoulder.

I sighed. Was I really that terrible at this whole speaking in public thing?

"It's, uh, been five years, two weeks, three days, and four hours since I had injected myself with the drug known as Dilaudid. I, uh, h-have an eidetic memory, which is also known as a photographic, and. . ."

I stopped and closed my eyes, fumbling with the professional black tie I had chose to wear this morning. Of course, nothing was professional about my outfit; my black sweater vest clashed horribly with the tan khaki pants I had picked out this morning, and the purple dress shirt made me feel like a kid all over again.

I'm still considered a kid to all of the officers here, but I still wanted to at least appear mature, even though they probably noticed the yellow and black striped socks on my left foot and the blue and white one on my right.

The same police man who had snickered was wearing this almost satanic grin on his face, trying to catch the attention of the male police man to his other side.

My emotions seemed to burst when I noticed the police officer next to him start grinning like an idiot too.

Enough was enough.

"On February 7, 2007, I was kidnaped by a sadistic UnSub with a personality disorder. He was living as three people. Charles, the abusive father, Rapheal, the calm angel that forced me to play Russian Roulette with him, and then himself, Tobias, who believed he could take away the pain his father inflected on me by injecting me with the very addictive, very strong drug, Dilaudid."

I almost smiled with satisfaction when both police officers had the grin wiped clean off their faces. Everyone stared at me with shock, sadness, or with a disturbed face, but none of them contained pity, which I was extremely grateful for. I had never told anyone the complete, full story of my two days in Hell, and for the first time, I thought that my secret would be completely safe with these strangers. I mean, this was and anonymous meeting, right?

John just looked at me, proudly, silently signaling me to continue.

"I was held in a cold, empty shack, basically paralyzed with fear for two days. But I wasn't afraid of the beatings Charles gave me, or the cold look Rapheal gave me. I was so afraid of the strange feelings inside of me when Tobias injected that drug into my arm. It was. . . terrifying. And I had no idea what it was," my voice cracked at this point, and my eyes filled up with tears. A few managed to escape their way onto my cheeks, but I wasn't the only one. All of the women in the crowd were crying silently, and I noticed John spill a few tears. The two cops who were once snickering seemed to be squirming in their seats with discomfort, probably feeling guilty about whatever words they exchanged.

"Your literature used the word craving. I craved that drug, and frankly, it scared me. A lot. And I thought that life would be better once my team found me in that dark graveyard. But, uh, even after detox in the hospital, the cravings stayed and I didn't know what to do about them. So, I satisfied the need and I got myself in, for the lack of a better term, a lot of crap."

A few watery chuckles arose from the otherwise silent crowd, making the tension in the room drop slightly.

"My team eventually found out, and even though they never did anything, they were still there, and they weren't going anywhere, and that alone helped me stay clean for five years, two weeks, three days, four hours, and . . ." I paused, glancing at the clock before staring directly into the crowd, "thirty-seven minutes."

Everyone suddenly jumped to their feet, applauding so loud it sounded like claps of thunder erupted into the room. Some were still wiping the tears on their face, and an occasional nose-blow was heard.

John made his way back up to the podium, the large smile on his face contrast to the tears in his eyes, and stood right next to me.

"I am honored to give this five-year medallion to Spencer Reid. Congratulations, Spencer," He handed me a golden coin with a beautiful illustration of a Cardinal on the back of it.

"Thank-you, John," I whispered, greatly touched by this man's kindness.

"Yeah, Pretty Boy!"

I faced the audience, and noticed the peculiar group in the back of the room, all standing against the wall.

Morgan was clapping loudly, his large hands breaking the silence.

"GO, MY JUNIOR G-MAN!" Garcia praised, her blonde curls bouncing against the flamboyant outfit she had picked for the day.

"Yeah, Spence!" JJ screamed, her hands also clapping.

"_Reeiiid!_" Prentiss hollered cupping her hands around her mouth.

"That's right, Kiddo!" Rossi joined in on the celebration, his aged face in a trade-mark Rossi smile.

Hotch stood there, his arms across his chest, a proud look in his dark eyes. His eyes reached mine, and his lips twitched slightly.

I smiled back, overjoyed that my team was here. My surrogate family.

I made my way to the back of the room, everyone now clearing out and heading back home.

"How'd you guys know I was here?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Garcia simply planted her hands on her hips, shaking her head dissapointedly.

"You dare doubt my tech powers, mortal?" She winked at me, before grabbing my arm and looping hers with mine.

JJ followed her lead, "Yeah. Shame on you, Spence."

"Okay, either we can discuss Garcia's all-knowing techiness, or we can go enjoy an Italian dinner at Rossi's place," Morgan said, earning a groan from the older man.

"How many times do I need to tell you people? It's a mansion!" Rossi cried, throwing his hands in the air in mock-frustration.

"Is there a difference?" Prentiss teased.

"Actually, a mansion is a very large dwelling house that at least has an area of 8,000 square feet. Europeans used to define their houses with the word 'mansion' when they had many bedrooms and at least one ballroom. Today, however there is no traditional definition of a mansion. And a house is-"

"Hey, hey. I'm sure we would all love to hear the definition of the word 'house', Reid, but I am starving. So let's go!" Morgan teased excitedly, already walking faster than the rest of us.

"Are you trying to beat us to the SUVs?" Prentiss asked, quickening her pace, as well.

"Nah," he objected, casually sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"That's exactly what you're doing. Just so you know, I could easily run faster than you."

"That a threat, Princess?"

"It's a promise,"

She took off in a mad sprint, and we watched as Morgan gave a cry of shock before bolting towards her.

Ever since Emily died, it felt like a piece of the team was ripped away. And I was so close to injecting myself with Dilaudid to try and fill that void.

But JJ noticed my distress at the hospital, so she gave me her cell-phone number on a piece of tissue paper. Even though I already had her number on my phone, she insisted I take it. Like she wanted to remind me she was there. Because she was.

That piece of tissue paper kept me clean for those harsh weeks to come.

"Go, my Chocolate God!" Garcia cheered, also running the best she could on large, orange heels.

"I can out-run you all," JJ mocked good-naturally before running in the same direction Morgan and Emily had.

"Settle down, children," Rossi sighed, shaking his head slightly before following them.

"We're all very proud of you, Reid," Hotch said quietly, standing next to me with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Really?" I asked, already knowing the answer by the emotions in his eyes.

He nodded seriously, before smiling slightly.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, leading me into the direction of the others.

I smiled as well, enjoying the feeling of the engraving of my five year medallion in my pocket.

**_Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved._**

**_~Helen Keller_**

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Thank-you for reading, and let me know what you think by pressing that cool-looking button down there. :3

P.S. A Cardinal is Virginia's state bird. Fun little fact.


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